Natalia Smirnova - Moscow Noir

When the bastard was about fifteen feet away, Felix started following. He had no plan—but he wasn’t going to let the son of a bitch get away. Felix had to somehow lead him to a more secluded place, to set him straight or just tie him up and gag him…

In pursuit of Korenev, who maintained a fairly brisk pace and never turned around, Felix crossed the square and made it to the corner of the station—and there he realized the bastard was heading for the subway. He sped up, gaining on Korenev; but only when he was in the crowded vestibule of the station, only when he saw the bastard getting in line to pass through the turnstile leading to the escalators, did he look back at the ticket booth—a hopeless throng of people—and think: I’ll jump the turnstile . Right then, however, he met the gaze of a cop on patrol. Damn …

Korenev pushed his way toward the escalator without having bought a ticket… He completely blended in with the crowd at the turnstile. Felix watched him descend underground—his feet, his waist, finally his neck and head vanished from view…

Rudely pressing against some heavyset lady (who cackled at him indignantly), Felix slipped through the turnstile. Pushing his way in front of everyone else, he hurried to the escalator, expecting to see Korenev rushing down the stairs.

The descent at Kievskaya is a long one; but the bastard was nowhere to be seen. What the…? Felix scoured the length of the escalator with his eyes, oblivious to the complaints of the people whose way he blocked.

Gone… gone…Just like that… slippery bastard…

Shuffling around aimlessly for another minute or two, Felix sighed deeply several times then made his way back outside.

No big deal, really. He knew who to look for, and, thank god, he knew how to search. He’d been doing it his whole life. He never even considered the possibility that he wouldn’t find the bastard again. And besides, Felix was always lucky…

Moving toward the parking lot where he had left the car, he came to the street. He waited for a lull in the stream of traffic and stepped out onto the pavement. In his pocket he felt a buzzing—then he heard the beep of his mobile. Felix hesitated, his hand scrambling around for his phone… Kostya from the Criminal Investigation Department. Felix finally managed to press the answer key, then turned his head at the furious sound of screeching brakes—but for some reason he didn’t feel the impact of the blow at all.

“Hello, Felix? Hello! Hello!?” But after a short, sharp sound, he heard a steady beeping—the connection had broken off. Never mind; he’ll call back.

Kostya stared at the monitor again. Huh, no way, colonel. That Pasha Korenev, the one the Petersburg cop was looking for, had died; according to a document Kostya had just located, it happened twelve months earlier. In the Sklifosovsky Hospital, in the intensive care unit. Fractured skull, swelling of the brain. They found him by the fountain on Europe Square. He had been beaten, and his wallet and cell phone were gone. That place was bad news, Kostya thought, always full of bums.

What a stupid death…

Nikita dozes off holding my hand.

Such a handsome hand he has. Strong fingers, smooth oval nails, nicely defined tendons. Light hairs, almost imperceptible, but stiff to the touch.

He’s sleeping holding my hand, but I just can’t.

I’m afraid of dozing off. It’s like walking into cold water, slowly immersing yourself, diving headfirst and not knowing what you’ll see on the bottom.

That Crimean summer I dove alone while Nikita watched from shore. Only later did he admit he was afraid to swim.

I wasn’t afraid of anything. I was twenty-eight. Never before had I been as beautiful as I was that summer.

Nor will I ever be again.

Time has wrung me out like laundered linen and thrown me into the dryer like a crumpled rag. Back then I thought, Time spares no one , but now I know that’s not so.

Time changes everyone, but men are grazed by a touch of gray, a leisurely gait, a solidity of figure. At least Nikita has been. As for anyone else, to be honest, it’s been a long time since I’ve cared.

His hands have barely changed. Except that seven years ago a wedding ring appeared.

My skin is tarnishing, withering, covered with a fine fishnet inside of which the years I’ve lived thrash around like caught fish. My hair is falling out and in the mornings I look at my pillow, fighting the temptation to count them.

Once I couldn’t stop myself. Now I know: 252 hairs, almost a handful.

I’m afraid of going bald. I’m afraid of my breasts disappearing in a few years, my belly sticking to my spine, my eyes sinking. Sometimes I feel like a living corpse.

Nine years ago I wasn’t afraid of anything. Now I can’t fall asleep out of fear.

But Nikita isn’t afraid of anything. In those years he’s lost all fear. Blind swap? as we used to say in kindergarten.

I didn’t want to go to kindergarten. I was still afraid then. I thought one day my mama wouldn’t come for me and would leave me there forever. Only later did I learn where that fear came from; it was the echo of my orphanage infancy, the first months of my life.

My mama told me the story herself. You see, sometimes children are mistakenly born to people who aren’t their parents. So they can take them to a special place where their real parents find them. The way we found you.

I was six years old and I didn’t know where children came from. I probably thought about a stork that might mix up his bundles, or a store where after a long line you could buy a child—and they might sell you the wrong one by mistake.

When I was ten, my papa explained: The ancient Hindus believed in the rebirth of souls. I believe you are the little girl your mama couldn’t give birth to.

I knew by then that children came out of the belly, but I didn’t really understand how you could not be able to give birth.

I no longer believed in the stork, or the store, but I believed in the rebirth of souls immediately. And I still do. I believe the soul travels back and forth through history, and can even be born several times in the same century, miraculously not meeting herself in a previous (subsequent?) guise.

I believe that. Or, rather, I know it. And that’s why I lie here sleepless, squeezing Nikita’s hand. I’m afraid to fall asleep.

In the filmy, viscous dimension between waking and sleep my past lives return. Men, women, children. They fill me until it seems like there’s no room left inside for me .

I squeeze into a ball and try to push the past out—it was mine, it wasn’t mine, it may not have existed at all.

No surprise I’m losing weight. I must think that if I shrivel up completely the ghosts will decamp and find themselves another receptacle.

Though I could get used to them. Ultimately, these are my past lives. I recognize them: the old lady twirling in front of a mirror; the man gazing at the river; the young woman hugging her pregnant belly; the man crushing out a cigarette butt; the soldier pulling a grenade pin; the naked man cooking breakfast; the little girl staring at the Black Sea; the man dropping to his knees in front of his lover.

They shout, laugh, cry, moan, and sigh… Sometimes I feel like throwing myself open, embracing them, and saying, Come in, it’s me, your unsafe haven, your future, reincarnation, rebirth. Don’t cry, everything worked out fine, look at me, I’m much happier than you. My life is wonderful: a loving husband, a home, a car, a household, a full cup. They didn’t beat me during their interrogations, my friends weren’t killed, radiation didn’t eat up my flesh, and I didn’t wait to be arrested. I don’t worry about money or survival, I don’t worry about where I’m going to sleep tomorrow or what I’m going to eat. I can’t remember the last time I was hungry.